


Lone Wolf

by SadinaSaphrite



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood and Gore, Gen, Pre-Recall, Vomiting, WereMcCree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 01:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14438184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadinaSaphrite/pseuds/SadinaSaphrite
Summary: After the fall of Overwatch, Jesse McCree had an unfortunate encounter with the supernatural that resulted in the loss of his arm and a lycanthropic disease that made life as an outlaw much more difficult. Now that Winston had initiated the Recall, there was no way he could go back, not when he was such a danger to everyone and himself. It was better to be alone.***Were-McCree oneshot, my submission to theFull Moon Fanzine.





	Lone Wolf

“The world needs us now, more than ever. Are you with me?”

McCree snapped the holo-screen closed and stuffed the communicator back into his pocket, returning his attention to the drink in front of him. Winston’s message had broadcast across Overwatch’s emergency frequency three weeks ago, and the old Blackwatch communicator sat like a lead weight in his pocket ever since, buzzing once an hour, on the hour, to remind him that the message was still unanswered. Of course he hadn’t answered. How could he? Working for Overwatch and Blackwatch had been the best years of his life, the first time he’d felt like he truly belonged, like he was making a difference. Overwatch had become his friends, his family, his _home._

Which was exactly the reason why he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t inflict himself upon them, couldn’t bear the thought of admitting what he’d…become. This curse was his burden to bear, and he’d be damned before he dragged anyone else into this hell with him. He didn’t dare accept Winston’s offer, but he also couldn’t bring himself to reject it, so the message sat unanswered, a nagging reminder of everything he’d lost.

He checked the time. Two hours until sunset, and then moonrise thirty minutes after that. McCree tossed back the rest of his bourbon and threw a few bills onto the bar before wrapping his serape around his shoulders and heading out into the evening streets. He lit a cigarillo and strode down the street with purpose, spurs jangling with each step. He’d only been in town for a week, but it was long enough that he’d scouted out the city’s extensive industrial district, including an area with some promising abandoned warehouses. 

After Overwatch was disbanded and his classified dossier made public, he’d been forced to spend an unhealthy amount of time dodging bounty hunters, but the Bite four years ago had made his life on the run significantly more complicated. He couldn’t risk staying in one spot, but he also couldn’t be constantly on the move. He had to plan around the moon, looking for somewhere sturdy enough to hole up and lock himself away before moving on. Most of the time, he succeeded. Sometimes…well. He tried not to dwell on the mornings where he awoke exhausted and alone, covered in someone else’s blood.

It took him just over an hour to get to the industrial complex, walking through the rows of lonely buildings through the long, sharp shadows cast by heavy equipment in the failing light. Most of the warehouses looked like they were in use, which meant security cameras, bioscans, and patrol drones, but as the sunset darkened from reds to purples to blues, he found himself approaching a rougher area where the graffiti grew more frequent, windows jagged and vacant, and not a security drone in sight. 

He finally found himself at a warehouse that looked promising, covered in a myriad of illegible graffiti tags, and he began carefully inspecting the building. Solid construction, strong walls, and a sturdy steel door, not the usual aluminum. Perfect. He’d be able to crash right through aluminum like tinfoil, but steel would hold him. It was even locked with a chain across the bay doors and an actual, physical padlock instead of those shitty digital bioscan locks. 

McCree checked the time again. One hour until moonrise. He didn’t want to disturb the lock that would be helping to keep him in, but he could reach the small windows along the back wall. It was a simple feat to smash a window with his prosthetic arm and knock the glass away. The empty space left behind was just wide enough for his shoulders to squeeze through the frame. Good. If he could just barely fit through the window now, then there was no way he’d be able to escape the same way after he transformed.

He dropped to the ground with a grunt, knees complaining at the hard landing. Goddamn, he was getting old; that was barely a six foot drop. When you get infected with lycanthropy, they don’t tell you that bad knees are a possible side effect. Digging around online had led him to find it had something to do with repeated rapid osteotransformation. There ought to be some kind of educational handout for this shit. “Welcome to lycanthropy! Enjoy your new silver allergy, rapid healing, monthly murder sprees you won’t remember, and arthritis before you turn forty.” 

Dusting himself off, he looked around. The dark warehouse held rows of large, steel shipping containers and little else, including a lack of potential exits the Wolf could break through. The only other way in or out was the large bay door, and a thorough check proved that it was just as locked as it appeared from the outside. He was secure.

He found a corner amid the steel crates and began to disrobe. The Wolf was big, and an outlaw’s non-existent salary was barely enough to afford food, smokes, and booze, so new clothes every month were out of the question. He folded his clothes neatly, setting them high atop the steel shipping container, along with his pack, Peacekeeper, and his hat. He spread his serape out on the floor, giving him something to sit on besides dirty concrete, then finally removed his prosthetic arm, setting it beside his hat. 

He’d ruined his connection ports more than once by failing to remove his prosthetic before transforming, mangling the steel as the Wolf tried to commit nightly atrocities while limping on a too-small limb. He would have gone with a stronger, more advanced material if he could, but most carbon steel alloys had traces of silver in them and that had ended…poorly. He’d managed to convince the engineer that he had a significant allergy without too much suspicion, and had been forced to settle for an older, clunkier model to replace his left arm. 

McCree took a deep breath and sat down on his serape, the cold still managing to seep through the thick wool, wrapped his good arm around himself, and waited.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, for lack of anything else to distract him from the oncoming night. In and out. He’d never been one for meditation at the best of times, but the breathing exercise helped lull him into a state that at least resembled peace. In and out. Darkness fell over the warehouse as the sun gave up the last of its hold on the evening and sank beneath the horizon, leaving McCree shivering alone in the dark. 

In and out.

The peace shattered as a shudder tore through him and his skin began to crawl like so many thousands of ants. Oh God. It was coming. His breathing became heavier, deeper, as he fought to keep himself calm. Every breath was sharp with cold, smelling faintly of concrete and dust. 

In and out. In and out.

Between one breath and another, something changed. He breathed out the dull, faint odor of concrete, and breathed in a whole new world. His nose filled with the smell of rats in the walls, pigeons in the rafters, along with steel and dust and concrete and mold and paint and people, so many people, at least two dozen people, along with beer and cigarettes and sweat and-

McCree’s eyes snapped open. Someone had been here recently. A great number of people, in fact. No! This place was supposed to be abandoned! If anyone found him while he was transformed… He had to leave. Now.

The crawling feeling under his skin turned into a maddening itching sensation as coarse, dark brown fur erupted through his skin in a wave. He struggled to his feet, staggering to one side as his bones shifted and reformed with a series of sickening pops.

Goddammit! He should have scouted this place earlier, should have staked it out for days before the full moon. The place had looked vacant, covered in graffiti, but… His heart sank. The graffiti. It wasn’t there because the warehouse was abandoned, those tags were marking a territory, tagging this warehouse as claimed by whatever local gang had made their home here. Dammit, the signs had all been there. The graffiti, the padlock instead of the bioscanner, the intact windows, hell, there wasn’t even dust on the floor beneath his bare feet. He shuddered as another ridge of fur burst from his skin, rolling down the contour of his spine. Sloppy. He’d gotten sloppy and now other people were going to pay for his mistakes. Again.

As if on cue, the sound of voices reached his ears, cursing and sniggering with the brazen arrogance of youth. The chains locking the bay door began to rattle. 

No…no, no, no…

He tried to lurch away, but fell to his knees as his spine cracked and elongated. Skin and fur stretched as his broad chest began to grow, muscle expanding and convulsing as his body was forced to accommodate the massive size of the Wolf.

The bay door opened and the scents of at least a dozen people carried into the building.

_Prey._

The mind of the Wolf stirred awake, pressing against McCree’s consciousness, threatening to take control already. No! No, not yet! Not now! Goddammit, no, no, please…

“What the hell?” The group of gangsters stood in the doorway, staring at the mass of writhing fur and deformed limbs that was McCree.

“P…Please…l-leave…s-stay away…r-run….r…rrrrr….rrrRRRRR…” His voice degenerated from a pleading whimper to a deep growl as his jaws stretched, reshaping into a long muzzle incapable of forming words.

The Wolf’s instincts fought against McCree’s tenuous grasp on his own mind, focusing in on the varied scents of his prey: surprise, confusion, shock, fear…it was time to hunt, to chase, fight, kill! The Wolf tried to lunge forward, a snarl pulling at his lips to bare his fangs, and McCree only barely managed to hold himself back as the internal struggle waged. He closed his eyes and tangled his misshapen fingers into his hair.

“What the shit is that thing!?”

“Kill it! Fuckin’ shoot it!”

The crack of a gunshot echoed through the warehouse, followed instantly by a blossom of pain in his shoulder. A snarl ripped itself from his throat and he trembled on his knees as the Wolf demanded control. The air split with the sound of another gunshot. Then another. And another. The bullets were lead, not silver, and the wounds had begun to heal before his blood even had a chance to drip to the concrete below, each explosion of pain only fueling the Wolf’s anger and giving him strength behind his rage.

“What the hell, man? Kill it, kill it!”

“I’m trying!”

The grinding of bone slowly stopped as his body finished transforming and the massive, three-legged wolf rose to his feet. Golden eyes glowered at the gangsters still crowded around the door and a low, deep growl echoed through his chest.

_No…please…let them go…let them live…_

His control was deteriorating under the light of the full moon, his consciousness slipping away as the Wolf was freed at last. 

The Wolf howled and leapt toward its prey, and McCree knew no more.

*****

He woke to sunlight streaming through his eyelids, sprawled on his side behind a warehouse, though not the one he’d sought refuge in last night. With a groan, he rolled over and took stock of himself. He was sore, aching through his legs and back and he felt a crick in his neck. There was no trace of the bullets he’d been shot with last night; the Wolf’s supernatural healing had taken care of that. He groaned and started to sit up, frowning as he felt something pulling lightly along his skin as he moved, tugging on the hair of his chest and knuckles. 

Blood. It was all blood. Dried, flakey blood was splattered along his chest, down his arm, covering his hand, and splashed down his legs and feet. It was all over his face, caked into his hair, dried and crusted under his fingernails. Oh God. He could taste it on his teeth.

McCree crawled to his knees and wept.

How many died? How many had he killed? Even worse, how many survived? Had he spread this curse to someone else? He didn’t know. He would never know, damned to remain burdened with the guilt of his own making. 

The sun had crept well above the horizon before McCree dragged himself to his feet and began following his own bloodied, lupine tracks back to the warehouse. The door was hanging open when he arrived, chain and lock lying forgotten on the ground. He stood shivering in the morning chill for a long moment before gathering the courage to step inside, dreading what he would find.

The stench of blood hit him like a truck, the reek strong enough to stagger him, and once he got a glimpse of the carnage inside, he lurched forward and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the warehouse floor.

He tried very hard not to look at what those contents were.

He put his hand over his mouth and nose, but between the blood on his fingers and the death around him, it did nothing to hide the smell. He closed his eyes against the massacre he had caused, a lump rising in his throat accompanied by the sting of tears.

_Goddammit._

McCree didn’t know where he found the strength to step forward into the hellscape he’d created, but he slowly walked barefoot through the carnage, blood still sticky against the concrete, and found the shipping crate where he’d stashed his belongings. Everything was exactly as he’d left it. Of course it was, he thought bitterly. It wasn’t like he’d left anyone alive long enough to disturb his things. He slowly attached his arm and dressed himself, cringing as he put his clean clothes on over his filthy, blood-caked skin. Between his glove, hat, and serape, he could probably hide how horrifying he looked long enough to get access to a public shower and clean himself up. 

He slowly left the warehouse, spurs echoing through the empty building as he left the slaughter behind him, to be discovered by some other poor soul in the future. He’d need to leave town, of course. He’d like to be well out of the county by the time “Horrifying Gang Massacre” hit the headlines.

The communicator in his pocket buzzed as it detected a message on the emergency channel. Winston’s recall.

Maybe…maybe he _should_ answer. Overwatch, even a defunct Overwatch, likely still had resources enough to lock him up, keep him away from anyone else he could hurt. He’d done his best to stay one step ahead of the bounty hunters looking to claim his sixty million dollar bounty, but maybe being locked up by his friends wouldn’t be so bad. 

Before he could think better of it, he pulled the communicator out of his pocket and made the call. Audio only. Part of him hoped no one would answer.

The communicator clicked.

“Jesse, luv! Is that really you?”

The bright, cheerful sound of Tracer’s voice, so familiar even after so long, hit him with such a wave of nostalgia and longing that he physically stopped in his tracks, throat closing up around his reply.

“…Jesse? Are you there?”

“Lena…” His voice cracked on the name and tears threatened to take him over once again.

“I need help.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fun one-shot, and though I don't typically roll with Were-McCree, I may consider continuing it if there's enough interest! Hit me up at my [Tumblr!](https://dabbledrabbleprose.tumblr.com/)


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